


This Radiant World of Metal and Gems

by deathwailart



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Clothed Sex, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingerfucking, Genderswap, Genital Piercing, Masturbation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for hobbit kink.  Prompt: Thorin/fem!Bilbo, cunnilingus.  Specifically: My mighty dwarf kingdom for Thorin yanking down Lady!Bilbo's bloomers, sticking his head under her skirt, and going down on her hard.  Title is from Les Bijoux (The Jewels) by Charles Baudelaire</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Radiant World of Metal and Gems

He is particularly shameless about this and it makes her remember all she has heard about the greediness of dwarves, how single-minded they are when it comes to so many things. She is not a blushing maiden, not at her age and not when her Tookishness had ruled so much of her younger years, cavorting around until she began to notice whispers, looks. Her mother had always told her (and oh how it had made her toes curl even as her cheeks flushed with something that was not shame, not embarrassment) that there was nothing wrong with exploring, with that wicked glimmer of a Took smile and she had always been a comely lass. But when she grew older things changed, she was expected to be respectable and the Took side that had once been so loud, so vocal, pushing lads and lasses against trees for furtive kisses and groping beneath clothes, rolling around in green summer grass to kiss the stickiness of honey from lips.  
  
All that was a long time ago. She had been alone and nothing had stirred her fancy enough – she doubted she would ever be the marrying sort and one did not go for a simple tumble when they were a respectable hobbit like she was. Anyway she had her hands. And things bought from Bree that she had bought with blushing cheeks and trembling fingers, sure that the whole Shire knew what she had in her bag when she returned home with her heart thundering against her ribs. Who knew what they had said when thirteen dwarves and a wizard had all ended up in her hobbit hole. She had been running too fast to notice all the head being shaken at her, tuts and sighs and what would poor old Bungo think. If she had heard, been asked and, supposing the first two, possessed a certain sort of shamelessness then she would have said that her father wouldn't have had a leg to stand on; Bag End echoed terribly with only three occupants and her mother had never been the quiet sort.  
  
It didn't help that so many of the dwarves were easy on the eyes in that rough and ready way of bandits and pirates that she had read about when younger, books that were only ever meant to be read with one hand, their spines long since cracked and worn, certain pages marked at the corners. She has one in her pack, she doesn't know why but it's an old favourite and it's there at the very bottom – of course it was discovered by Fíli and Kíli who got a good giggle out of it, dramatically reading passages aloud until they collapsed against one another, gasping for breath, Dwalin's roaring laugh only encouraging them.  
  
Until Thorin confiscated it, using it to smack both of them on the back of the head. She'd caught his grin though, a quick flash of white teeth and the smacks had not been hard. Still she'd flushed and stammered when Thorin had tossed it in her direction.  
  
She would never deny that she found Thorin attractive, she'd have to be an idiot not to admire the broad shoulders and proud bearing, that baritone voice and if, in her dreams, she heard Thorin's voice in her ear instructing her, offering encouragement then that was her business. And if she slipped her fingers between her thighs in her bedroll and tried (emphasis on tried, his fingers were so much thicker than hers with all the calluses that spoke of his skill as a warrior and a smith) to pretend they were his then that was entirely her business too thank you very much. At least she was quiet about taking care of herself, a skill not all of them managed, not even those who were older and should have known better. But no matter how quiet she was, she always felt that someone knew, that someone being the leader of their ragged company; he woke so quickly in a way that made part of her hurt. When she woke suddenly it was because sounds were unfamiliar, because she wasn't used to sleeping on all terrains in all weathers. Thorin woke because anything could be an attack. An attack where he lost someone or something when he had so very little left to lose. He wasn't the only one, Balin and Dwalin could jerk awake just as abruptly with a flicker of panic in their eyes, but she couldn't stop watching him even as he exasperated her and she apparently exasperated him.  
  
“If you have to prove yourself to someone,” her mother had told her once, sitting in the sunshine as they shared a picnic, “then they're not worth it.”  
  
And she tried to keep it in mind. Really, she tried. But when Thorin looked at her and said she had no place something twisted, hard and jagged and she felt like a fool, a fool of a Took, tramping after dwarves in a dinner jacket and skirt. She hadn't meant to hurt Bofur when she had lost her temper with him but she had been scared, more than that really, she had been terrified. She had almost _died_. That wasn't part of her life. She was no warrior, no fighter. She lived a comfortable and soft life, she had a home. Then there had been darkness, more terror and that lurking _creature_ , a terrible moment of her blade so close to the throat of another creature, anger and fear twisting and writhing in her gut until she had looked into those eyes. The eyes of a lost and wounded creature – so she had run, run hard and fast with her skirt catching on rocks and grass  
  
So much changes after she makes a stand because she cares about these dwarves, they've come to know her better than anyone has since her parents passed and she is not about to watch someone die after she has made a declaration to help them recover what she has always known. She hasn't known fear or hunger until now. She wants to help them forget that. She is accepted and embraced and when their eyes meet there's an understanding, a chance to grow closer.  
  
Perhaps she could have lived without learning dwarven courting rituals from Balin with his twinkling eyes or Gloin fondly recalling his days of courting his wife – she is spectacularly beautiful, Bilbo can't quite take her eyes off her when the locket is shown. Thorin's nephews and Ori sit around for Balin's lessons and Bilbo privately thinks they're taking notes for whenever they're old enough to actually think about things more serious than immediate urges. Things in the Shire were and are very different depending on the intentions and that's half the problem really because Thorin is a king and she is a hobbit but when he braids her hair one night when she finally musters the courage to ask, everyone seems to treat her differently and Gandalf smiles that (infuriating, maddening, really could punch it off his wizardly face) smile of his and says, “you really will have a tale to tell,” then she realises that's probably some sort of declaration. Besides, Thorin is most likely the one who asked Balin to explain customs to her seeing as there's probably (considering dwarves can be vexing creatures) some sort of law where a king can't explain the rules of courtship to the one he's courting. Which probably makes sense given that dwarves would know their own traditions but really, would it be so hard for him to actually explain something to the hobbit who helped save his life?  
  
Apparently so. She wouldn't change that, she likes (it's too early to say love even if the Took part of her is running in that direction, wild and reckless and unabashedly free) him just as she is, even if she is very careful to state that he drives her up the proverbial wall more often than not. He always gives a grin at that.  
  
“Probably reminds him of our mother,” Fíli says with a grin, his brother nodding sagely next to him.  
“Dwarf women are known for their tempers,” Kíli continues, him and his brother off quick as a flash before she can question them further. Not that she ever suspects a serious answer out of them half the time but she remembers what it was like to be young and carefree, full to the brim with mischief and she will never begrudge them that.  
  
It is she who makes the first move after courtship because she is a hobbit with needs and even if she much prefers a nice comfortable bed for these sorts of things, she is hardly unaccustomed to doing this out in the open although she never had an audience so close or if she did, there was usually a party with lots of noise to cover what mind scandalise the ears of many. Instead there are forests or caves with at least one set of eyes on watch but she isn't ashamed of curling up beside him in his bedroll or sneaking not too far off for privacy, mapping every inch of him with her fingers, lips and tongue.  
  
There are few opportunities to undress as fully as she might like for very practical reasons that she can understand and appreciate – they never know when they'll have to move quickly and it's bloody cold more often than not as the seasons change. A part of her enjoys it though. It makes it feel a bit more illicit even when it's not, her shirt unbuttoned just enough to let him cup her breasts and mouth at them with her fingers tight in his hair, strong hands cupping her arse to support her. She bares his chest all the way because she can't get enough of it, running fingers through dark hair, over muscles and scars and down to the sharp angles of his hips, the last never failing to make him draw in a sharp breath against her. Her fingers know how to pluck the laces of his breeches without even looking in the pitch dark, pushing them as far down muscled thighs as they can go so they won't impede his movement or hers.  
  
Tonight she has her back against a tree, Thorin on his knees before her with her skirt bunched up and out of the way as it can be, clenched tight in her hands, her underthings around her ankles. He moans against her folds and she stifles a cry as best she can by biting her bottom lip – she's still sensitive because he didn't tease once they were finally alone, dove right in the way he does in battle and she'd come so quickly it had taken her by surprise, unable to stifle her shout that they most likely heard for miles. He'd huffed out a laugh and she'd pulled his hair a little harder than was strictly necessary in return. That only made him moan.  
  
The second time he is more gentle than one might think by looking at him, letting her recover and steadying her thighs as heat coils low in her belly, her eyes closed, all her attention on his mouth and her own body, all the soft, wet sounds and their breathing and she comes with a quiet sigh, more a hitched breath than any real sound with black and grey hair wrapped around her fingers as her hips move, chasing after every last tremor of her orgasm. His eyes are dark, the pupils wide and she's very aware of how flushed she is when the cold night air makes her shiver, shirt plastered to her skin with sweat, nipples tight beneath it. If her hands weren't preoccupied with holding her skirt out of the way or guiding his movements then she'd bring her hands up, roll and pinch through fabric before sliding beneath, smirking down at him.  
  
She'd rather have this though – she can wait for a comfortable bed where they can be naked so that she can do everything she wants to at once.  
  
“If we were in Erebor,” Thorin growls from between her thighs, his lips and beard shining “I would make such things for you. Delicate glittering things, not that you need adornment,” he punctuates his words with a nip where hip and thigh meet, “but it would be fitting.”  
“I don't,” she gasps and twines her fingers in his hair to try to pull him closer but he remains annoyingly out of reach, the brush of his beard on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, “u-understand.” She may not be a blushing maiden, she may have read a shocking amount of increasingly dirty novels but she does not understand, not until his thumb presses against her clit, pushing the hood back carefully as she whines. Her eyes are wide as she manages to look down at him instead of staring sightlessly out at the tree line, watching him as he keeps stroking, maddeningly slow, waiting for her to say more. “W-wouldn't it hurt?”  
“Not when done with care. You have seen mine – it did not hurt for too long,” he replies and without further comment he leans forward, mouth where his thumb was, a thick finger pushing into her cunt.  
  
Her answer is a moan, mostly from what he's doing because his mouth and tongue are talented but partly from remembering the first time she unlaced his breeches and felt warm metal where she had never thought to find it. He'd given her an astoundingly dirty leer, guiding her hand when she faltered, worried she might cause pain or, even worse, injury, until she'd discovered her confidence and had learned all the ways to make him arch and sigh and moan, each sound and movement a victory. It's not something _anyone_ in the Shire could ever think of but even thinking about it makes her clench around his finger, back arching as her thighs start to shake. Even as she arches into his touch again she tries to think about what he might have in mind and it shouldn't make her grind down against him so hard but it does and she lets her head fall back against the tree, panting and moaning as he slides another finger alongside the first and fucks her with them slowly. For a while it's just his fingers and thumb as he gets his breath back, holding her gaze and she knows what that means, can't wait, breathless and shivering.  
  
“One day we'll have the time to do this properly, until you can take no more, until you're utterly boneless.” She doesn't doubt his words for a second, whining instead with loss when he removes his fingers, pushing her thighs apart just a little bit more to the point where she thinks her muscles might be about to protest. “Somewhere we don't have to worry about noise.”  
  
The Baggins side of her is utterly mortified at the thought of lying in a bed in a tavern or inn so that everyone else in the company can hear her. The Took side of her wants nothing more than to scream so loud they hear her back in the Shire; the Took side wins nine times out of ten now.  
  
“Maybe,” she manages after inhaling sharply, “you should put your money where your mouth is.” Even back in her wilder days she was never so bold – she'll never be able to go back to being a respectable sort of hobbit now and she cares not a bit.  
“At your service, Mistress Baggins.”  
  
He ducks his head and she bunches the fabric of her skirt up so hard the knuckles of that hand are white, one of his strong arms pinning her hips so she can't move when he licks from her cunt up to her clit, sucking at her clit, grazing so very gently with his teeth that she is no longer pulling at his hair but pushing because it's too much but at the same time not quite enough. A strangled sound escapes her, the sound he must have been waiting for because then his tongue is where his fingers were – it seems like forever ago – and she can move again, twisting into every touch. There's a rustling of fabric that has her alarmed for half a heartbeat until she realises it's him and not someone else. It still causes a ridiculous swell of pride in her belly when she realises how hard this makes him even though he tells her often when he can and she knows that when the positions are reversed she usually has a hand between her thighs because she enjoys doing it even if it makes her jaw ache.  
  
So she watches his hand on his cock and for a long moment she's torn between wanting to shove him back and sink down on him, rolling her hips slowly with his hands to steady them or perhaps insisting he stand so it's her hand even if it means his mouth is no longer making her feel so damn good. Before she can do anything though he's moving his hand faster, thumbing the head of his cock, brushing against the metal and then he groans and she feels it, that deep rumble and her body stiffens, hips jerking hard and she lets go of her skirt to grab his strong shoulder, savouring the moment for as long as she can.  
  
Their breathing is too loud in her ears when she finally finds she can think again, wondering what she must look like but her eyes are drawn to him, his head bowed to rest on her hip and she runs fingers through his hair – she'll help repair his braids later. Eventually he moves, wiping his hands on the grass before grabbing the waterskin and a scrap of cloth from his coat. He laughs at her grimace because she prefers beds and homes for more than just comfort; cleaning up out in the open has to be done unless they want to wake up itchy and uncomfortable but no matter how many times they do it she still cringes. Once that's done he's on his feet and she pulls him down for a kiss, nipping his bottom lip, him righting her clothes and buttoning her shirt as she busies herself with laces and fastenings in kind. His heavy coat is wrapped around her when they creep (she creeps, she doesn't want to wake anyone, Thorin strolls like a satisfied cat) back into camp, nodding to Nori who is on watch duty.  
  
She stretches out beneath blankets and his coat, not quite ready for sleep even as his breathing evens out as he drifts off. Instead she eases the clasps from his braids and sets about braiding them, the movements almost familiar now, soothing. His brow is free of the troubled lines that crease it in the day and she presses their foreheads together, tentative so as not to wake him, and when she dreams that night it is not of Bag End and all its comforts but of stone halls and walls, jewels and ore glittering and of the deep voices of warriors echoing joyously beneath a mountain reclaimed.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering about Thorin's piercing, it's an apadravya - most links about it will be nsfw.


End file.
